


Come What May

by CommonNonsense



Series: Overwatch Ficlets [4]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2019-10-02 16:58:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 13,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17267903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: They'll find their way to each other eventually, no matter the situation.--A collection of shorter Tumblr fics that didn't quite merit their own posts, from shorter prompt fills to other little drabbles.





	1. Prompt: Laughing kiss + Silly kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the Tumblr kiss prompts: Laughing kiss + ‘We’re actually being kind of silly for once’ kiss

“I thought you told me you learned to dance.”

“I did! It’s just been a hundred years.”

“Truly? One hundred years?”

“Yeah. Hundred years. Long damn time to go without dancin’ and expect me to still be able to do it.”

Hanzo gives up the facade and laughs, bowing his head until his forehead hits McCree’s chest. McCree chuckles, too, and this close Hanzo can hear the way it rumbles from his belly through his chest, rich and wonderful.

“If it has truly been a hundred years, then I suppose I can forgive you,” he says. He guides them both to a stop, halting the gentle sway they had fallen into after McCree's misstep. Together, they readjust, wait for the beat of the music playing from McCree’s phone on the counter, and start again. 

In theory, all of this is practice for an upcoming mission infiltrating a charity gala. Mostly, it’s them tripping over one another--sometimes on purpose, Hanzo suspects--and laughing about it all. 

“Fuck!” McCree laughs as he stumbles again, kicking Hanzo's foot. He rights himself again, falling quickly back into their rhythm, and bows his head close to Hanzo's as he chuckles. “Promise you won't break up with me 'cause of my shit dancin’.” 

Hanzo hums, considering. “Perhaps if you can prove your worth in other ways,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

“Mm. Remind me why else I should keep you, if you cannot dance.” 

McCree heaves a beleaguered sigh. He readjusts, steps back, lets Hanzo take the lead as they resume their lazy turns around the room. “Well,” he says, “I ain’t too bad to look at, I think.”

“A fair point, but an obvious one.” McCree huffs at that response. Hanzo smiles guilelessly. “What else?”

McCree chews the inside of his cheek. He’s only half paying attention to their dance, apparently content to let Hanzo lead him about. “

“I’m full of surprises,” McCree says, and he spins, taking Hanzo with him. His hand slips from Hanzo’s hip to around his back, and Hanzo suddenly has a perfect view of the ceiling as he’s dipped backwards. McCree grins down at him.  
  


Hanzo smiles. He lifts his free hand and pushes his fingers through McCree’s loose bangs before cupping his cheek. McCree leans into the touch instinctively, even as he looks down at Hanzo with a soft, warm gaze.

“Fair enough,” Hanzo says. He starts to lean up, off the weight of McCree’s supporting arm and up for a kiss, but McCree tips his head back just out of reach. 

“Also,” McCree says, straight-faced, “I’ve been told I’m a fantastic lay.”

Hanzo bursts out laughing in spite of himself. McCree joins him, chuckling at the absurdity of his own joke, and Hanzo seizes his chance to pull him down into a kiss. It’s clumsy and difficult, their twin smiles making any real technique impossible, but Hanzo kisses him once and again and a third time on top, chasing the taste of McCree’s mirth.

They eventually manage something like a proper kiss, smiling lips pressed together for a few seconds, before McCree breaks away to ask  if that means Hanzo agrees with him. Hanzo replies, in all seriousness, that he is at least better in bed than he is at dancing, and McCree drops him in retaliation.

The music keeps playing, forgotten, buried under the sounds of their laughter.


	2. Prompt: "You nearly died" kiss

 

 

Hanzo on the battlefield is a sight to behold. 

He is a masterful tactician, a criminal heir trained in a dozen types of combat, unmatched in skill with his bow and other weapons besides. Genji had told a number of tales about his brother’s prowess before Hanzo had ever come to Overwatch, and all of them had held up over the last few months. 

He treats fighting like it is the reason for living, not a means to do so. He wants to win because he must be superior. He wants to survive because it is instinct. Some days, he even fights because he wants to live to see another day--but there are days when everything about him says that doesn’t care whether he does or not. 

Some days, Hanzo fights like a man who has nothing left to lose, and McCree knows it because he’s seen a face just like Hanzo’s in the mirror every day for so many years that he’s lost count. 

In the past, he might have let it go. He might have made a remark about Hanzo’s recklessness, or swoop in and save his ass and depart again with a wink and a grin. But that was before.

Today, he is  _ terrified. _

Their target was getting away, carrying a tablet with such vital information that Winston had dedicated a month to tracking the bastard down, and Hanzo--Hanzo had thrown himself behind enemy lines, buried himself behind a veritable army of Talon soldiers to pursue their target despite commands to abandon the mission, and disappeared. And McCree’s known terror in his day, more than enough for his lifetime and a few lifetimes besides, but the last time he’d known a fear like that had been in his Blackwatch days.

Hanzo is fine. For the most part. He had come back, clutching the side of his ribs but victorious, grinning with a wry sense of self-satisfaction as he revealed the tablet tucked inside his coat. That grin fades when he sees McCree; McCree can only imagine the furious expression on his own face.

“What the  _ fuck _ did you think you were doing?” McCree demands. 

Hanzo frowns at him, an equal mix of affront and confusion. “I was retrieving our target,” he replies indignantly. “He would have escaped with the intel. He did not.”

“You could have died!” McCree shouts. “You damn near did!” He gestures sharply at the wound in Hanzo’s side, a nick from a bullet that is still oozing blood between Hanzo’s fingers.

Hanzo’s frown deepens. “But I did not,” he replies. “And what would it have mattered? This was far more important.”

“More impor-- _ how. _  How in the fuck is that more important than you surviving?”

Hanzo’s lips press into a thin line, and he tips his chin up defiantly, but he does not answer.

“For fuck’s sake, Hanzo,” McCree continues. “You know better than to do something that stupid. Intel ain’t worth your life.”

“And what do you care?” Hanzo finally snaps. “You know as well as I do the dangers of our work. My life holds no more meaning than any other here. Perhaps even less. What does  _ my _ risk have to do--”

McCree’s not aware of moving until it’s nearly too late; he takes Hanzo’s face between his hands in a firm grip, has him pulled halfway forward and up before he catches himself, manages to divert what would have been an extremely unwelcome kiss on the mouth to Hanzo’s forehead instead. He presses his lips hard to the knitted brow, just once. He hears Hanzo inhale sharply, but Hanzo does not move.

“Stupid,” McCree mutters, lips brushing Hanzo’s hairline. “You stupid son of a bitch.” His voice is shaking. So is he, he realizes belatedly. He can feel his grip is too tight, probably painful on Hanzo’s jaw and cheeks. He pries his fingers away but his hands still linger without his permission, palms cupping either side of Hanzo’s jaw, holding onto the proof that Hanzo is still alive and well in front of him.

“Stupid,” he says again. It’s not what he means to say, but all other words seem to have abandoned him entirely. 

Hanzo stares. His dark eyes are wide with shock, lips parted around the soft, startled breath he’d taken. McCree waits, hoping he will understand, praying that he didn’t just ruin everything between them with his own stupid panic.

Eyes never leaving McCree’s, Hanzo slowly lifts his hands, closes them around McCree’s wrists finger by delicate finger, holds them in place instead of pushing away. His left hand is wet with the blood from his wound, but he seems to have forgotten. He tips his face up into the scant inches of space between them and brushes his lips over McCree’s in a tentative question.

McCree chokes on a whimper, exhales a shuddering breath, and kisses Hanzo again. He crushes his lips against Hanzo’s, uncomfortable and desperate, hoping that if words fail him, he can push his fears and anger and wants into Hanzo’s head through sheer force of contact.  _ This is why _ , he tries to say in the hard, graceless movements of his mouth.  _ You wonderful idiot, this is why. _

Hanzo kisses back passively, lips soft and receptive under McCree’s, letting McCree take what he needs. It feels a little like  _ I’m sorry. _


	3. Prompt: "I missed you" kiss

McCree’s never done this before, having someone to come home to.

Or, well, the other way around, he supposes--he’s the one at home, in as much as Gibraltar can be a home, and Hanzo’s the one who’s supposed to be coming back. It’s been a little over two weeks now, and McCree’s hardly been sitting around just pining and bemoaning his loneliness the whole time, but nonetheless . . .

He holds his phone between thumb and middle finger, spinning it idly with a flick from his index finger until it catches against his palm. He flips it screen-up into his hand, stares at the blank screen devoid of notifications, unlocks the device. He stops with his thumb hovering over the text app. 

McCree’s a little alarmed by just how much he  _ misses _ Hanzo. 

Before, in Overwatch’s heyday, he’d had a few flings, short-term romances that both parties knew weren’t really going to last--a couple with other agents, a couple more with civilians, never anything serious. Sure, he was happy to see them when he got back from long trips, on those rare occasions something lasted longer than a week or two, but the only thing he really  _ missed _ was flirting in-person and physical contact.

But this thing with Hanzo continues to surprise him in every way. They’ve been together a couple of months now, after damn close to a year of pining his way from a crush to genuine affection on McCree’s part, and while they’ve been apart here and there, it’s never been this long. It was usually no more than a few days, easily endured with a few texts and silly flirting between them. It was never enough time for them to miss each other, other than that mild sense of being off-kilter without having the other at their side. 

Two weeks, however, was long enough that McCree might as well have gone right back to the pining stage of things, for the way his chest ached and his thoughts were preoccupied entirely by Hanzo. 

He hates it.

He locks his phone again. Sits it back between his thumb and his middle finger. Taps the corner against the table to an irritated beat. 

He’s often the more affectionate one in this relationship. That’s fine. But he worries now he’s crossing the border between  _ reasonable _ and  _ needy _ , and he’s as annoyed at himself for it as much as he imagines Hanzo would be. And it would be nice to be able to even think for a while without all of it coming back around to how lonely he is without his boyfriend.

His phone buzzes in his hand with an incoming text, saving him the embarrassment of messaging first.

From: Hanzo 12:22 PM  
_ Mission is finished. We will be back tomorrow as scheduled. _

McCree can't help a smile at the dry, no-nonsense text. Even in private, Hanzo can be curt.

To: Hanzo 12:23 PM  
_ Glad to hear it, sugar. Can’t wait to have you home   _

From: Hanzo 12:24 PM  
_ I look forward to being home. _

It’s not quite an  _ I miss you, _  but McCree will take it for now. 

 

\--

 

He manages to shake off those doubts for most of the next day, but when his comm pings with the alert for the incoming shuttle in the evening, they come roaring back.

He doesn’t go to meet Hanzo at the hangar, instead lingering in his dorm. Hanzo won’t mind, he thinks. Hanzo appreciates his personal space and independence, and probably won’t want McCree hovering after a long mission. He can wait a few more minutes to see his lover.

He isn't surprised when his door slides open without warning and Hanzo stands in the opening--having given him the door code ages ago--but he does feel a pang of regret. Hanzo stands with his gear slung over his shoulder, shoulders slouched with exhaustion.

“Hey, sugar,” McCree says. He pushes himself upright and onto his feet, ostensibly to help, but Hanzo drops his things at the foot of the bed too quickly. It’s where they always go, and the sight triggers a bloom of affection in McCree's chest. “How’d it go out there? Sounds like things went well.”

“Well enough.” Hanzo gives him a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He kneels down and unzips his duffel bag. “Are you well?”

McCree blinks. “Yeah, darlin’, I’m fine. Do I look like I’m not?”

“No,” Hanzo says lightly. “I just did not see you when we landed.” It’s an innocuous statement, but Hanzo won’t meet his eyes, instead focusing on digging through his bag. It’s unclear what he’s looking for, as he doesn’t actually take anything out. 

Something slides into place for McCree, because he’s known Hanzo long enough to recognize the way he shows disappointment when he thinks he shouldn’t. 

“Did you want me to meet you there?” he asks, just to confirm. Hanzo doesn’t answer, but the way his shoulders stiffen is answer enough. 

To hell with it.

“Hey,” he says, and when Hanzo looks up at him, McCree hauls him up with a hand around his upper arm and into a heartfelt kiss. 

The way Hanzo melts instantly under his hands is all the confirmation he needs that he was  _ wrong, _  and McCree feels simultaneously relieved and guilty all at once. He wraps his arms tightly around Hanzo’s middle, eliminating any possible space between them after the last two weeks, and lets the kiss go on for a good few seconds before he pulls away to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs before cutting off Hanzo’s answer with another kiss. Hanzo makes an inquisitive noise against his mouth, too preoccupied to respond, and McCree reluctantly has to break away again. “I would’ve met you out there, but I thought--”

He hesitates, abruptly embarrassed. Hanzo presses their foreheads together, gaze steady on his as he waits for McCree’s explanation. “Thought you’d want your space,” he says uncomfortably. 

“What I wanted was to see you,” Hanzo says, soft but matter-of-fact, and McCree's entire perception of their relationship flips around in an instant.

McCree sighs, smiling weakly at his own idiocy. “In that case,” he says, “I missed the hell out of you. I’m real glad to see you again.”

A smile blooms across Hanzo’s face, slow and shy and utterly glowing. Hanzo’s hands slide up his shoulders, threading through his hair and linking behind his neck. “I missed you as well,” he murmurs.

McCree chuckles, nudging his nose against Hanzo’s. “We’re gonna have to have a talk about you leavin’ that long anymore,” he says, “but in the meantime, you’re not gonna so much as leave this bed for the next two hours.” He drags a hand down Hanzo’s flank, fingers splayed over the expanse of his back and waist, marveling at the simple joy of having Hanzo back in his arms again.

“Only two?” Hanzo asks, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes, and McCree wonders how he ever could have thought Hanzo wouldn’t want him around.

McCree answers with another kiss, deep and sweet and hinting at dirty, and pushes Hanzo back toward the bed to make good on his promise. “Well,” he says, “if we had it my way, you wouldn’t be out of my sight again, but we’ll take what we can get.” 


	4. Prompt: "Everything hurts but you make it better" kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full Tumblr prompt: Kisses because everything hurts right now including being loved by you but you’re also the only thing that makes it feel better

The Deadeye is . . . not a curse, precisely, but to call it a blessing would be giving it too much credit.

The ability is a combination of things: a high-tech cybernetic implant in the back of the eye, which itself is only companion to an innate talent that McCree had never cared to examine too closely, but others had whispered wasn’t  _ quite _ natural. The implant helped fine-tune things, to pick out his targets and track them at speeds impossible for the human eye, but the rest was all him, and that unique combination resulted in both a lethal, irreplicable ability and splitting  _ fucking _ migraines.

McCree doesn’t so much as walk off the shuttle as he limps, head bowed and hat pulled down over his eyes to block out the searing overhead lights. Pain lances through his right eye with every step he takes, throbbing and radiating out through the rest of his head. Nausea roils in his gut and pushes into the back of his throat. The voices of his teammates around him, the clatters and scrapes of gear, even his own jingling spurs all make him cringe. He snaps at Mei for giggling too loudly at something Reinhardt says, nearly growls at Reinhardt himself for existing too loudly, and has to excuse himself quickly with a muttered apology. 

He’s about ten minutes out from becoming completely useless, so he makes his miserable way back to his dorm and the sedating bottle of whiskey that awaits. He sheds his hat and boots somewhere in the vicinity of his closet. The bottle of whiskey is within easy reach on his desk, and he forces down a couple of hearty swigs past the threat of vomiting before he collapses face-down in his bed, lights off, silent.

His phone buzzes a few minutes later, the sound grating against McCree’s eardrums. He almost doesn’t check it, but finally manages to drag the device towards himself to read the message. 

From: Hanzo 21:31  
_ May I come in? _

McCree considers. Types out  _ no _ . Deletes it again. Types  _ yes _ and hits send before he can change his mind. 

A moment passes, then he hears the door click and hiss softly as it opens, followed by deliberately light footsteps. Bright light from the hall pours into the room, and McCree can’t help a groan before the door slides shut again. 

The footsteps pad closer, pausing by the bed. “Jesse?” Hanzo calls softly. “What is wrong?”

McCree feels the gentle brush of fingertips against his shoulder and snarls, “ _ Don’t _ .” The hand immediately retreats, and McCree’s nausea sharpens with the sickening feeling of guilt.

“Should I go?” Hanzo asks.

McCree sighs deeply and pushes himself up onto his elbows first, then into a halfway sitting position leaned up against the wall. Hanzo hovers by the bed, uncertain. “No, stay. M’sorry,” McCree mutters. He gropes for the bottle of whiskey on the table, takes a deep drink, and drops his face into his other hand. “Head fuckin’ kills.”

Hanzo carefully sits beside him. “Headache?” 

“Mm. Deadeye migraine.” The whiskey’s starting to kick in a little now. McCree takes another swig to keep it going.

“Your ability caused this?” McCree grunts an affirmation. “I do not understand. I have seen you use the Deadeye before, but you never felt this way after.”

“You’ve seen me use it  _ once _ ,” McCree says. At Hanzo’s confused look, he continues, “Always gives me a little headache, but as long as I don’t do it more than once a day, I’m good. But if I use it twice in the same day, it--” He gestures vaguely at himself and the wreck he’s certain he looks like. 

Hanzo studies him for a long moment. Then he sits up a bit, adjusting so that he is reclined against the wall, and holds out his arm. “Come here,” he says.

It takes McCree a bleary moment to realize what Hanzo is asking. Instinct would have him say that a nice cuddle won’t do shit and the last thing he wants right now is for Hanzo to sit here and watch him cry about his headache, but at the same time, the idea of lying in a cold bed alone waiting to pass out just doesn’t have the same appeal. 

Slowly, wary of his pounding head and rolling stomach, he shifts and presses himself to Hanzo’s side. Hanzo’s arm wraps around him carefully, drawing him against his sturdy frame. His other hand gently cups the back of his head, guiding him to rest against Hanzo’s. McCree relaxes almost immediately, the warmth and solidity of Hanzo being far superior to the cold mattress. Hanzo slowly combs his fingers through McCree’s hair, alternating between dragging the blunt edges of his nails against McCree’s scalp and lightly kneading with his fingertips. The pain is no better, but it’s easier to tolerate, and despite his hesitation McCree soon finds himself melting under the tender touch.

When a few minutes have passed, Hanzo murmurs, “Why would you use it twice today if you know it does this to you?”

“Wasn’t a choice. Had to take out a few goons early on with it, then as we were loadin’ up, we were under fire, there was a sniper takin’ aim at Lúcio as he was comin’ in that I couldn’t reach without the Deadeye . . . “ McCree shrugs wearily. “Couldn’t just let ‘em get killed because of a headache.”

Hanzo’s hum is understanding, but still displeased. McCree feels the brush of lips against the top of his head. “Your selflessness is admirable,” he says, “but you still must be careful. Our lives are risky as it is. Adding extra injury is not necessary.”

“It’s just a migraine, Han. Won’t kill me. Can’t say the same for a sniper bullet.” Even as he says this, another stabbing wave of pain lances through his head, and he can’t hold back a pained whine. He feels Hanzo’s arm tighten around him, as though in doing so he can protect McCree from his own body. 

Pathetic, he thinks to himself, that a headache could turn him into this. He would be more embarrassed if he weren’t too busy hurting. 

He cracks open his eyes to look up at Hanzo. Hanzo looks back at him, eyes soft with concern. “Any better?” he asks.

No, McCree thinks, because there is nothing to really be done about his pain until he finally passes out, but it doesn’t matter. Hanzo’s hand leaves his hair so that his thumb can stroke down the side of McCree’s face, and as McCree takes too long to answer, Hanzo’s lips press into a thin, worried line. 

It takes an extraordinary amount of effort to close those last inches between them, but McCree leans up anyway, clumsily pressing his lips to Hanzo’s. Hanzo doesn’t immediately kiss him back, apparently surprised by McCree’s choice to do this when he feels unwell, and admittedly it’s not McCree’s best idea. The movement sharpens the headache and the nausea again but he pushes through, chasing the relief to be found in the sweetness of Hanzo’s lips and the warmth of his affection. 

When Hanzo kisses back, it’s soft and careful, like everything else he has done tonight. McCree has no idea how he managed to find the love of someone like this, not when he’s such a broken mess who can’t even shoot a gun without feeling like his head will split open, but for a few seconds, he feels just a little better. 

After they part, Hanzo presses a dry kiss to McCree’s right eyebrow, just over the worst of the pain. “You should rest,” he says. “It is late.”

“You don’t gotta stay here,” McCree mumbles, even as he tucks his face against Hanzo’s neck. “S’not much else you can do. I’ll pass out eventually.”

“Nonsense,” Hanzo says simply. “I will not abandon you.” 

“Han--”

“Do not try to persuade me to leave,” Hanzo interrupts. McCree must wince at the way his voice raises, because guilt flashes across Hanzo’s face. He tenderly pushes McCree’s hair away from his face and murmurs, “I will not leave, Jesse. Leaving you to suffer alone would be far greater a burden than staying.”

Sensing he’s lost this particular battle, McCree huffs, dropping his head again to hide his hapless smile. “You’re too good to me,” he says against Hanzo’s collarbone, and hopes his voice sounds steadier than he feels.

Hanzo chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. “There is no such thing.”


	5. McCree Cheats at Arm-Wrestling

The first time McCree challenges Hanzo to an arm wrestle, he expects a challenge but not to lose. Hanzo's strength is obvious when you look at him--all the solid, carved muscle through his arms and back and chest a testament to his prowess, not just for show--but McCree's no pushover. He's got enough power to hold his own, but he knows that he looks unassuming in some ways and he hopes that Hanzo will fall into the trap of underestimating him.

Still, though he manages to push back against Hanzo for several long seconds, he's not quite strong enough. His hand slips an inch to the side, then another, and then his muscles fail and Hanzo slams his hand down to the tabletop with a triumphant grin.

"Alright, fair enough," McCree says, rubbing his stinging knuckles. "I'll getcha next time, though."

"You can choose to believe that, if you wish," Hanzo says haughtily, though the playful glimmer in his eyes softens the taunt. McCree doesn't mind much either way. It was worth a little embarrassment to spend time around Hanzo, and get to watch the powerful flex of his muscles up close, and to see that genuine smile on his face.

\--

Next time, McCree cheats.

They have an audience this time--Zarya, who started the whole thing by challenging Reinhardt, and Genji and Hana besides them. McCree forgets about them, though, as he and Hanzo lock hands, elbows propped on the table, Zarya's hands atop theirs to hold them still until the match begins. He grins roguishly at Hanzo, and the smirk Hanzo gives in return sends a spark through McCree's gut.

Zarya announces the start and releases their hands. McCree instinctively flexes, pushing back against Hanzo's hand, but he knows immediately that he's going to lose.

But McCree's never found much fault in cheating things a little if it's not harming anyone, and the idea that comes to mind is _really_ tempting in its own right, and frankly there's two beers in his system egging him on, anyway. So he doesn't hesitate too much to stand up, lean over the table, and press his lips to Hanzo's.

The effect is immediate. Hanzo sucks in a startled breath, and his arm goes entirely slack with shock. McCree could leave it at just a quick peck, but he figures he might as well make it good for both of them. He lingers for a second or two, makes sure his lips are fitted properly between Hanzo's instead of just mashed together. He fancies he feels Hanzo start to kiss back just before the end.

He sits back. Hanzo stares at him, eyes wide and lips parted in shock. McCree smiles pleasantly and pushes Hanzo's hand down onto the table.

Their little audience immediately erupts with shouts of protest. Zarya's and Reinhardt's are loudest of all, declaring his win to be irrelevant because of his blatant cheating. Simultaneously, he hears "What the fuck" and "What the hell" out of Hana and Genji, respectively. McCree laughs, shrugging his shoulders.

"Couldn't resist," he says. "Knew I wasn't gonna win that one honestly. Guess you're just too much for me, Hanzo."

Hanzo says nothing. He is, in fact, the only one who has yet to protest. He is still staring at McCree, though now his cheeks are a bright red, and his brows slowly draw down in something a little too close to distress for McCree's comfort. There is no shouting or rage or even laughter. McCree wonders if, perhaps, he wasn't the only one who might have wanted a kiss before now.  

Their hands are still joined on the table, slack now. McCree changes his grip, slowly lifts Hanzo's hand, giving him plenty of time to pull away. When he doesn't, McCree brings Hanzo's hand to his mouth and presses a gentle kiss to the backs of his fingers. He can hear Hanzo's breath hitch from across the table.

"If you're wonderin'," McCree says softly, low enough for only Hanzo to hear, "I'd do that again without the arm-wrestling, if you wanted me to."

It takes a moment, but eventually Hanzo gives a jerky nod, and McCree sees the beginnings of a smile start to form. He can't stop his own answering grin as he gets to his feet.

It's an apology and a short, honest discussion before he can make good on his word--but after that, with Hanzo pressed up against him in the privacy of his dorm, he gets plenty of chances to prove himself.


	6. Prompt: Steamy kiss

Hanzo doesn’t fully recall how they got here. His head spins, muddled by an equal mix of alcohol and desire, and every time he tries to collect his thoughts, McCree does something to scatter them again. 

There had been drinks. That much he remembers. They had started in the rec room, watching a movie. McCree had had a bad night, so when they started drinking, he downed two shots of whiskey one after another, and then the beers they shared were particularly strong, something Reinhardt recommended, then there had been more whiskey, and Hanzo had partaken but not nearly so much as McCree had. Hanzo doesn’t recall much of the movie or their conversation, but he remembers thinking of how handsome McCree had looked, his worn flannel shirt tight on his chest and shoulders, his hair in artful disarray around his face, and he had wanted so badly to kiss him but didn’t because  _ they didn’t do that-- _

His back hits a wall, and Hanzo is cognizant enough to recognize the hallway leading to the dorms. A passing thought--somebody is going to see--before he remembers the late hour, and then McCree presses against him, his body a solid plane of heat against Hanzo’s, and he forgets what he was worried about in the first place. 

McCree’s hand cups the back of his head--protecting his skull from the rigid steel of the wall, thoughtful even in his drunkenness--and his mouth descends on Hanzo’s again. His lips are surprisingly soft, but the curl of his tongue around Hanzo’s is relentless, possessive, taking everything that Hanzo will give. Hanzo is helpless to do anything but hold on, riding the desperate, heated movements of McCree’s mouth. He slings an arm around McCree’s neck, his other hand fisted in the front of McCree’s serape, keeping him near as though their bodies could possibly be any closer. 

McCree breaks away, only to press his lips to the side of Hanzo’s neck. “ _ Fuck, _  Han,” he sighs against Hanzo’s throat.  He presses a sloppy kiss to the underside of Hanzo’s jaw, and Hanzo can’t hold back a desperate whine at the flicker of McCree’s tongue on his skin. McCree continues, between kisses, “No idea how bad I want you--”

He doesn’t finish the thought before he kisses Hanzo again, and Hanzo lets him, but there’s something else now in the back of his mind, something trying to make itself known. McCree says something else, but the words are too slurred for Hanzo to make out anything but his own name.

They cannot do this, he realizes. 

They  _ could, _  technically--it is mere feet away from his dorm, and McCree is more eager than he could ever have dreamed. They are both drunk, more than enough to pretend in the morning that this was a mistake, but Hanzo is cognizant where McCree, clearly, is not, and he is aware enough to recognize that this must stop.

Hanzo allows himself just a moment longer, a few seconds more of McCree’s mouth hot and eager on his, one more flicker of his tongue against his lips, before he puts both hands on McCree’s shoulders and pushes him back. McCree blinks several times, visibly confused. He tries to lean back in, but Hanzo turns his head away, though every muscle in his body screams at him to stop resisting.

“What’s wrong, honeybee?” McCree asks. His hands slide up Hanzo’s waist, catching on his shirt and begging Hanzo to reconsider. 

Hanzo takes a deep breath and pushes McCree back again, holding him at arm’s length. “We cannot,” he says. 

McCree’s crooked smile dims. “Whaddya mean?” he asks. “I thought you . . .”

Hanzo meets McCree’s gaze. Despite the position they are in now, his heart is racing as he says, “I do. But we have had too much. You especially.”

McCree’s smile turns to a deep frown. Hanzo hates himself for causing it, even if it is for both their sakes. “I want this,” he repeats, “but not like this. If we--if I ever have you in my bed, I want it to be because we both want it. When we are both capable of making that choice properly. I do not want this to become a mistake we cannot come back from.”

McCree stares at him for a long moment. He swallows, and inhales deeply, and give a short nod. “Right,” he says. “You’re prob’ly right. Sorry.”

“Do not be. We both made our choices tonight.”

“Yeah.” McCree stands up straight and starts to back away, then hesitates. He lifts a somewhat clumsy hand and cups Hanzo’s face, and Hanzo flinches, fearing he will have to resort to more forceful measures. McCree dips his head down and Hanzo tenses, but the kiss lands on the corner of Hanzo’s mouth, simple and sweet.

“G’night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and Hanzo’s chest hurts from how sincere it sounds, as though this was something they always did--not an alcohol-fueled, desperate act. “Sorry for makin’ a mess.”

McCree ambles off toward his dorm, leaning on the wall for support.

It takes Hanzo a long time to go to his own dorm, and his bed is lonely and cold. 


	7. Prompt: Forehead kiss

He’d had another fight with Genji. 

Hanzo doesn’t say so, but even if McCree hadn’t passed by the rec room when they’d been arguing, he could easily have read it off the heavy slope of Hanzo’s shoulders and the guilty knit of his brow. Those arguments are fewer now, and they are no longer the violent, rage-filled shouting matches that they were the first few times they happened, but they still happen on rare occasion. Nine months isn’t enough time to fix ten years’ worth of issues, no matter how forgiving one party is. 

McCree had let the brothers be and instead gone out to the skybridge, where he knew Hanzo would eventually wind up. Fifteen minutes later, Hanzo had appeared, and now he stands before McCree now looking like someone’s just kicked his puppy. McCree wordlessly extends an arm, and Hanzo leans into him gratefully. 

They stand together in silence for a minute or so, both looking out at the dark sea and the moonlight that catches on the gentle waves. McCree finishes his cigarillo and flicks the stub over the edge of the bridge, then asks, “Everything alright?”

Hanzo sighs deeply. His breath warms the side of McCree’s neck, where he has tucked himself. “Yes,” he says. “Or it will be, I suppose.” He crosses his arms against the chilly night air and shoulders somehow further into McCree’s one-armed embrace. McCree rubs his hand down Hanzo’s arm and up again. 

Another moment passes. Hanzo closes his eyes. “I am tired of this,” he says quietly. 

“Of what?”

“The arguments. The reminders of my failure. Knowing I will never truly fix what I did.” Hanzo sighs again, a world of exhaustion expressed on a simple exhale. “Things are better, but there are times it feels as though nothing has changed at all.”

“No one said it’d be easy. This stuff doesn’t get fixed just like that.”

Hanzo doesn’t answer. McCree doesn’t expect him to. He’s not saying anything new. 

McCree dips his head, nosing against Hanzo’s hair. “You know it’ll get better,” he murmurs. “It’s not like it was before. And something like this is worth the fight, even if it’s tough.”

“Perhaps.”

McCree brushes a kiss to the edge of Hanzo’s hairline. “It will,” he insists. Hanzo looks up at him now, and McCree gently cups his face in his hand. “You’ll get up tomorrow, and the two of you’ll talk it out like rational folk, and it’ll be better.” He presses another kiss to Hanzo’s forehead, slow and lingering, and another to the crinkle between his brows. 

“You’ll be fine,” he says softly, lips brushing skin as he speaks. “And I’ll be here if you’re not.”


	8. Prompt: Eyelid Kiss

Ever since he began sharing his bed three months ago, Hanzo’s insomnia has all but vanished. But, as he stares up at the ceiling, the clock silently switches over from 2:29AM to 2:30, he is forced to acknowledge that it was never really gone at all. Instead, it lay dormant, waiting for the night it could strike again. 

Beside him, McCree sleeps soundly, giving a soft snore every few seconds. Hanzo loves him, but right now he irrationally hates him. His eyes burn with exhaustion, but he cannot keep them shut for more than a few minutes; his body is heavy and aching, but it, too, is not enough to draw him into sleep, only to trap him under the blankets. It is late enough now that even when he does sleep, he knows it will not be enough because he will have to wake again in less than four hours. He’s exhausted, but his mind will not let him be, and he wants to weep from frustration. 

Hanzo mutters a swear and slaps his hand down on the bed beside him. It does not help him sleep, but it is enough to startle McCree awake. McCree makes a startled grunt, then opens his eyes and sleepily focuses on Hanzo.

“Darlin’?” he mumbles tiredly. “Y’alright?”

Hanzo sighs deeply. He does not answer.

But McCree, with all his intuition, must sense that something is wrong. He pushes himself up onto one elbow so he can look down at Hanzo, brow crinkled with concern. “Can’t sleep?”

“No.” It’s a simple word, but Hanzo cannot help grimacing from how pathetic it sounds. They both have long histories of trouble with sleep--nightmares, PTSD, anxiety, and simple insomnia have all left their marks on them both--and McCree should not be expected to sacrifice his own sleep for Hanzo’s sake.

McCree says nothing, though. Instead, he scoots closer so that he can put his head on Hanzo’s pillow, and drapes an arm over him, encouraging him to turn to face him. Hanzo does, and though the touch will not be enough to make him sleep, it does help slightly to smooth the most jagged edges of his frustration. 

“Anything I can do?” McCree asks softly. He knows better than to offer useless platitudes or to push for answers that Hanzo will not give.

“No.”

“Alright.” McCree rubs his hand down Hanzo’s back and up again. Hanzo closes his eyes and tries to focus on the soothing touch. 

McCree shifts, and though Hanzo can’t see him, he can feel McCree move closer still. Then he feels the barest brush of lips against the corner of his eyebrow, then against his closed eyelid. He is startled by the soft gesture, but he forces himself to hold still as McCree repeats the kiss the other side. The kisses are feather-light, and McCree’s beard scratches faintly against Hanzo’s cheek and nose with each movement. 

“Just let me know if you need anything,” McCree murmurs, settling back down on the pillow. He quickly falls back asleep.

Hanzo, with the faint warmth of the gentle kisses still tingling on his skin, follows soon after.


	9. Prompt: Neck kiss

McCree’s learned a lot of things about Hanzo in the last year. 

He’s primarily an archer, but he used to be unmatched with a blade. He drinks a variety of teas, but will only drink coffee when it is the only thing available or if it comes from a café; on the other hand, while he prefers sake, he will drink any alcohol placed in front of him. He enjoys video games, but rarely plays. He has the sweet tooth to rival a small child's.

McCree’s favorite things about Hanzo, though, are the ones he’s learned in the last two weeks, since they stumbled together over that line between friendship and romance: that Hanzo is an excellent kisser, despite being out of practice for many years; that the way he smiles when they’re alone is sweet enough to stop a man’s heart; that he craves physical affection, but doesn’t dare ask for it, and also how to read that desire off Hanzo’s body language. 

And, as McCree learns upon brushing a kiss to the back of Hanzo’s neck and causing every muscle in his body to tense up, he is  _ extremely _ sensitive in certain areas. 

“You alright, darlin’?” he asks, fearing that he’s somehow already ruined their first night together. They’re still half-dressed, for crying out loud--he can’t have ruined it that quickly.

“Yes,” Hanzo replies, sounding slightly strangled. 

“You sure? Kinda froze up on me there.”

“It is not because I did not enjoy it.”

_ Oh.  _ Of course. 

Hanzo turns to face him and pushes him back toward the bed. McCree feels the edge of the bed hit the back of his knees and sits, and Hanzo insinuates himself into his lap. The position puts Hanzo’s neck right at eye level, and McCree wastes no time in diving forward to kiss the pale skin at Hanzo’s throat. 

He hears a hitch in Hanzo’s breathing, so he does it again, then moves up, kissing a spot under Hanzo’s jaw, then behind his ear. Hanzo sighs heavily, tilting his head to give McCree better access. When McCree finds the divot just behind Hanzo’s ear and presses his lips to it, he is rewarded with a quiet moan and Hanzo’s hand sliding into his hair. 

McCree leaves a couple more kisses down the side of Hanzo’s neck in a line, until he comes upon the junction where neck meets shoulder. He gently nips the skin there and Hanzo gasps aloud, seizing McCree’s hair in a too-tight grip.

McCree grins with his mouth still pressed to Hanzo’s skin, pleased with himself for finding what makes the archer come undone, before Hanzo shoves him back onto the bed and the thought leaves his head entirely.


	10. Prompt: Stomach Kiss

Hanzo’s never known McCree to be self-conscious, so it’s a bit of a surprise when he catches McCree frowning at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, poking slightly at his abdomen. Moments ago, he had been smiling, pushing Hanzo along as they made their way to their shared dorm in gleeful anticipation--the sudden change in mood has Hanzo concerned.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, stepping up behind McCree. McCree immediately straightens, apparently embarrassed to have been caught, and plasters on a smile.

“Nah,” he replies. “Just lookin’ at how old I am, that’s all.” 

Hanzo wraps his arms around McCree’s middle and props his chin on his shoulder, looking at their reflections in the mirror. Certainly they are both nearly forty and show it--Hanzo’s hair has been going slowly grayer for the last four years, and they both have lines around their eyes and mouths that weren’t there a few years before. And yes, perhaps McCree is not as fit as he once was, and there is a pudge to his belly that might have once not have been there, but Hanzo has never thought of McCree as anything less than utterly handsome. 

“We are both old,” he says, pressing a kiss to the back of McCree’s shoulder. “But not as old as we could be. Come to bed--you made promises that I intend to make you keep.”

McCree meets Hanzo’s gaze in the mirror and gives a grin, and turns to push Hanzo backwards out of the bathroom. Hanzo drags him down into a deep kiss, and the matter seems to be forgotten in favor of better things.

But, when Hanzo presses McCree back onto the bed and straddles his hips, he sees McCree’s gaze flicker down and his smile dim. McCree’s hands slide up Hanzo’s thighs, but his mind is clearly elsewhere, and he says, “I have no idea how someone as pretty as you ended up with someone like me.”

Hanzo frowns. “Someone like you?”

McCree laughs once, humorless despite his wry smile. “C’mon. I know I ain’t exactly the fittest guy around, ‘specially compared to you. You don’t gotta play dumb.”

Hanzo’s heart sinks. “I am doing no such thing,” he insists. “Do you doubt that I am attracted to you?”

“No, no, it’s just--you know what, it’s nothin’. Don’t mind me. It’s dumb.” McCree smiles up at him, but it’s clearly forced. “Sorry to interrupt what we were doin’.” He leans up for another kiss, a distraction that Hanzo allows for a moment. Then he sits back, and before McCree can do anything else, Hanzo bends down and brushes a kiss to McCree’s chest.

“You are ridiculous,” he says, and leaves another kiss lower, just below McCree’s sternum.

“How do you figure that?”

“You have no reason to be self-conscious. I have been attracted to you since the day we met.” Hanzo strokes his hands down McCree’s front, taking his time as he drags his fingertips over the soft swell of McCree’s belly that seems to have caused him so much distress. “The fact that I take care of my body differently does not mean I care for yours any less. Quite the opposite.”

He gently kisses the top of McCree’s stomach, then glances up. A faint blush stains McCree’s cheeks. “You don’t gotta flatter me,” he says. 

“But I do.” Hanzo places another deliberate kiss below the first. “You do not seem to realize what you are.”

McCree laughs a little, but it sounds disbelieving. “And what’s that, then?”

Hanzo kisses the spot just above McCree’s navel. “Utter perfection,” he replies. 

He hears McCree mutter something above him that sounds like “ _ shit _ , darlin’,” and he smiles. He moves lower, leaving kisses down the rest of McCree’s belly and lower still, leaving words behind to show McCree in other ways just how much he loves his body.


	11. Prompt: Kiss along the hips

They both have scars on their bodies, testaments to the years that they have fought, the battles that they have won. Hanzo hates his own scars--reminders of his failures, his near-misses, the times he should have died--but he relishes the ones that decorate McCree’s body. McCree’s are art, scattered marks that turn his body into a veritable tapestry, and Hanzo plans to memorize every single one. 

McCree, stretched out nude on their bed, content and sated from their earlier activities, is happy to let Hanzo spend some time examining his scars. Still, he laughs a little when Hanzo hovers over the one on his left hip for a long moment. “What are you doin’ down there?” he asks. “Might be a little bit more time if you’re wantin’ to go again, I ain’t that young anymore.”

Hanzo snorts and lightly smacks McCree’s thigh in reprimand. “I was just looking,” he says. He brushes his thumb over the scar, a pale, jagged line two inches long stretching across his hip. “I do not remember seeing this one before. Where did it come from?”

There is no answer. Hanzo looks up to find McCree frowning at the ceiling, his easy smile gone. 

“Jesse?” he prompts. 

McCree grimaces slightly. “Sorry,” he says. “That one’s, uh. From my Deadlock days, is all.”

“You do not have to tell me if you do not want.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” McCree blows out a breath toward the ceiling. A few seconds pass before he speaks again. “That one was from pretty early on. Me and another guy got into it. He thought I stole somethin’ of his out of the bunks or something, got mad at me. To be honest, I think he just hated me, but I guess it didn’t matter. He pulled a knife, got me right there before I could get him off me. It wasn’t that bad, and I beat his ass after, but . . . I remember that was probably the first time I got real scared for my life. When it kinda really sank in that they didn’t give a shit about me, outside what I could do for ‘em. Didn’t stop me from stickin’ around for two more years, but . . .” 

He trails off, then lets out a deep sigh. “Yeah. So that’s where that came from.” 

Hanzo watches him for a moment, idly brushing his thumb over the mark on McCree’s hip that has brought him so much distress. He had not considered that McCree, too, might dislike the scars on his body and the memories they carried.

Hanzo dips down and brushes a kiss over McCree’s hip. He hears McCree’s breath hitch, just slightly. He kisses the bony crest of his hip where the scar begins, then moves across to repeat the motion to the other end, near the crease of McCree’s thigh. When he looks up again, McCree is staring back at him in wonder and shock. 

Hanzo smiles, and scoots up the bed to lay beside McCree, and says nothing else. 


	12. Prompt: Kiss in the Rain

The rainstorm takes them by complete surprise. One moment, they’re walking down the dusty path through the rugged cliffs of Gibraltar under scattered clouds; the next, the sky darkens, and a few drops is the only warning Hanzo and McCree receive before the heavens themselves open and pour rain upon their heads. 

McCree’s okay at first, with his wide-brimmed hat and his serape layered about his shoulders, but Hanzo is less well-off with only his coat. He scowls and pulls the collar close about his throat, but it does little to protect him. The rain falls in sheets, and even McCree can feel that he’ll be soaked through if they don’t get to some shelter soon, and they’re too far from the Watchpoint to make it back.

“Come on, sugar,” he says, almost shouting to be heard over the din of the falling rain. He reaches out to tug Hanzo’s sleeve, leading him along. “Think there’s a little spot we can get to nearby and wait this out.”

They break into a run, McCree leading the way until he finds the little nook in the cliffs that he remembers from all those years ago. It’s small, only a few feet wide and deep, but it’s enough for him and Hanzo to duck into out of the rain. McCree looks over at Hanzo and can’t help a laugh--with his put-out scowl and hunched shoulders, dark hair plastered to his brow, Hanzo looks more like an angry cat than anything else. 

He glares like one, too, shooting McCree a displeased look. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” McCree says. He reaches out to smooth a piece of Hanzo’s wet hair from his face. “It’s just a little rain. Ain’t gonna melt ya.”

“It is cold. And wet.”

“Yeah, but it still won’t kill you. You’ll dry.” 

Hanzo regards him for a moment with a thoughtful look. “Oh?” he asks. “Then I suppose you will not mind if--”

He does not finish the sentence. McCree doesn’t have a chance to so much as blink before Hanzo snatches the hat off his head, then plants a hand on his chest and shoves. With a yelp, McCree stumbles back out of their shelter and into the rain.

“Hanzo!” he shouts, protesting. Hanzo laughs from the safety of the shallow cave, but his mirth doesn’t last long as McCree reaches out, ensnares him by the wrist, and yanks him out back into the rain. Hanzo yelps and tries to dig in his heels, but McCree is stronger this time, and Hanzo stumbles forward, back into the rain and into McCree’s chest. McCree laughs, catching Hanzo by the arms.

“There, now we’re both wet,” he says. The rain continues to fall, soaking them both; he can feel his hair sticking to his neck and scalp already. “Are you happy, Hanzo?”

“A little.” Hanzo grins like a cat who got the cream. McCree’s heart flutters. They’ve dated for a few months now, but god help him, that smile gets him every single time. 

“If you had not mocked me, this would not have happened,” Hanzo continues. His hands find a loose hold in McCree’s serape. Droplets of rain course down his face, running over the gentle arches of his cheekbones and sticking to his eyelashes. His eyes are impossibly dark in this lighting, blacker than the storm clouds overhead. Despite the freezing rain, McCree feels warm with the affection filling him at the sight of this man. 

“You’re such an ass,” he murmurs, as affectionately as he would a pet name, and takes Hanzo’s face between his hands to kiss him. 

Hanzo laughs against his mouth, but doesn’t hesitate to kiss him back. One hand weaves through McCree’s hair, fingers twisting through the wet locks. McCree tries not to smile, and savors the clear, cool taste of rainwater off Hanzo’s lips. 


	13. Prompt: Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An older Tumblr prompt from an anon, actually for someone else, about Hanzo having nightmares about his life in the clan.

Most of the nightmares are about Genji. The nightmares are rare these days overall–rarer still since Hanzo began sharing his bed in the last two months–and after ten years, he is somewhat accustomed to them. Not enough to prevent the panic attacks and the sleepless nights that follow, but enough to know what comes and work through them. It has gotten easier, too, with McCree at his side on those nights.

Still, however. There are some that are more insidious, ones that he cannot prepare for.

He wakes in a cold sweat, heart racing, panic tight in his chest as though someone is squeezing a fist around his lungs. It does not take him long to realize what has happened, the images of his nightmares already dissipating like smoke, but the realization does not ease the panic. He sits up and throws his legs over the edge of the bed, head in his hands, gulping down air. 

It is only a few seconds before he hears a soft grumble behind him, followed by the rustle of the bedsheets. “Han?” McCree slurs sleepily. “Y’alright, sweetheart?”

Hanzo does not, cannot answer. He digs his fingers into his hair, nails cutting into his scalp, willing his body to cease. Shame and anger mix with the panic, roiling in his gut, threatening to make him ill. He is disgusted with himself for his dreams tonight–and even moreso for the way he must react.

McCree sits up behind him. A hand gently rests against Hanzo’s shoulder. “Hey,” McCree says. His voice is clearer now as he quickly wakes and understands the severity of the situation. “You with me, Hanzo?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” McCree’s thumb strokes a line against Hanzo’s skin. Hanzo smacks his hand away, finding the comforting touch now unbearable, and stands. 

“You wanna talk about it?” McCree asks. Ever patient. Hanzo knows that McCree will accept whatever answer he gives, but tonight, he wishes McCree were nowhere near him. 

Hanzo snarls and slams his fist against the window. The glass rattles in the frame, but mercifully does not shatter. 

McCree puts up his hands, placating. “Hanzo, hey, it’s okay, you’re alright, Genji’s–”

“It is not okay!” Hanzo snarls, whirling to face McCree. “It is not about  _Genji!_  It is about my  _father!_  He has been dead for fifteen years, and yet I am still unable to rid myself of him!”

McCree stares at him in stunned silence. Hanzo  knows he is losing control, his anger and frustrations mingling with illogical panic, but he cannot bring himself to stop.

“Do you want to know what I dreamed of?” Hanzo continues viciously. “I dreamed I was a boy again. That I had missed my morning lessons, and my father struck me for it, berated me until he was satisfied that it would not happen again. Then I dreamed I had faltered in my training, missed a sword parry I should have known without thinking, and then he forced me to train for hours, until I could not lift my body from the dojo floor.

“I was never enough for him. I was never enough to be the heir he wanted, and yet all I wanted was to please him. And despite all I have done, despite being a grown man, despite his death, I cannot stop dreaming of it! I cannot stop panicking, waking up in fear like I am a child! It is  _not okay!”_

McCree does not move. Hanzo grits his teeth and hangs his head, too ashamed to meet McCree’s gaze any longer. He wishes the floor would open up and swallow him, or that he would simply drop dead where he stands, so that he would not have to continue this pitiful existence as a man unable to control himself. Angry, fearful tears well in his eyes and drip to the floor.

He hears the shuffling sounds of McCree getting to his feet. After a moment, McCree’s hands come down upon his shoulders, then gently pull him forward. Hanzo does not resist, listlessly allowing himself to be drawn into an embrace, his face pressed into the soft t-shirt at McCree’s shoulder.

“It’s alright,” McCree murmurs. “You’re not a child, Hanzo. Your family had you fucked up six ways to Sunday for almost thirty years. People don’t just come back from that.”

“My family is  _dead_. I should not care what they think of me.”

“You and I both know that ain’t how this works.” 

This, Hanzo concedes sullenly, is true. There is no logic to nightmares. He has said much the same to McCree, on those nights when their roles have been reversed. 

“That was thirty years of brainwashin’,” McCree continues softly, stroking a hand through Hanzo’s hair. “And nobody’s gonna think less of you for still bein’ messed up from all that.”

“I still should not–”

“There’s no ‘should’ about any of this shit, Hanzo.” McCree leans his head against Hanzo’s. “There just isn’t. All there is is gettin’ through it.”

Hanzo’s breath shudders out of him in an aborted sob. He grits his teeth against the threat of further tears, and McCree holds him tighter, sensing his distress. 

Finally, Hanzo wraps his arms around McCree, and they stand there for a long, silent moment, until Hanzo’s breath comes evenly and the adrenaline finally drains from his weary muscles. 

McCree presses a kiss to the side of his head. “Ready to come back to bed?” he asks.  Hanzo nods, too exhausted and embarrassed to speak, and allows McCree to guide him back into the bed, under the covers and wrapped up together in the center of the mattress. McCree says nothing else, valuing useless platitudes just as little as Hanzo does, and simply presses himself up against Hanzo’s back before drifting off to sleep again.

Hanzo is awake a while longer, listening to McCree’s heavy breathing behind him, hoping that one day, McCree’s approval will be enough to drown out those years he spent searching for it. 


	14. Prompt: Candy/Pastries

"Kinda surprised you like sweet stuff that much," McCree remarks. 

Hanzo only gives him the barest of glances before returning his attention to the doughnut box on the counter. McCree had found a proper doughnut shop while they were here in the States--one of those local places that was big enough to be noteworthy but small enough to still have product worth talking about--and brought back a solid half-dozen to the safehouse. It was, admittedly, entirely too much sugar even for two grown men, but it'd been a long and frankly boring mission and he thought they deserved something.

After a moment's deliberation, Hanzo liberates the box of its blueberry cake doughnut and sets it on a napkin that is already dusted with crumbs and flakes of glaze. "And why is that?" he asks as he sets to pouring a cup of coffee. 

"Dunno. You're so fit. Figured you were one of those guys who counted every calorie and eats their body weight in protein every day."

Hanzo snorts softly at that. "The fact that I put some thought into my meal composition, unlike some people, does not make me  _ obsessed." _

"Mmhm."

Hanzo shoots him a glare that is more amused than annoyed, then returns to his coffee. "You are not too far off, I suppose," he says, slowly pouring milk into his cup until it reaches the precise color he deems acceptable. "When I was younger, I did maintain a much stricter diet--it was considered childish to indulge in something with no health benefits. After, it simply became one of those things that I did not need and did not permit myself."

"And now?"

"Now I have learned that denying myself cake will not restore my honor." His coffee spoon clinks sharply against the countertop.

"Nah. Not unless it was a real good cake." Hanzo laughs a little and, as always, it makes McCree's heart flutter and his mouth incapable of shutting up just in case he can get Hanzo to do it again. "What's your favorite, then?"

Hanzo has to think on that for a moment. Then he answers, " _ Taiyaki,  _ I  think. Although to be fair, I think it is mostly whatever I am in the mood for."

McCree hides his smile in his coffee cup. He really is too far gone to be helped. "Fair enough."

"What about you?"

McCree shrugs. "Never had that much of a sweet tooth, to be honest. I mean, yeah, here and there," he adds, gesturing vaguely at the doughnut box, "but . . . I guess I'd never turn down a slice of apple pie, though."

The corner of Hanzo's mouth lifts in something that might be amusement, though McCree's not sure why. "Really."

"Used to drive my  _ mamá _ mad. She must've disowned me six or seven times for it, back in the day. Why not her flan, or  _ sopapillas, _  or something else she had a family recipe for." McCree chuckles at the old memory, his mother sighing and putting her flour-dusted hands on her hips as her son continued to betray their proud Mexican heritage. "But yeah. That's the favorite, I think."

Hanzo laughs softly. "A troublemaker at every turn."

"That's me." McCree brushes past Hanzo to pour himself another cup of coffee. Going by the files Winston sent this morning, it’s looking like it might be a half-pot kind of day. “Gotta say, though, damn hard to find any decent apple pie out where we’re stationed. They got stuff  _ like _ it around, I guess, but none of it’s quite right. Think the last time I had any was . . .”

He trails off. He’d been about to say it was probably the better part of a year and a half, but come to think of it, it’s probably been about a year. It wasn’t much, but he remembers now: serving himself a cup of burnt diner coffee and a slice of pie from the display case, sitting in a cracked vinyl seat with the best view of the railroad over the gorge, getting one bite in before having to abandon it. He’d barely appreciated it at the time with his attention focused elsewhere, but the taste of tart apple and sweet cinnamon had lingered on his tongue through the hell that followed, mixed with gunpowder and dust.

“McCree?”

McCree blinks out of his reverie. His sugar spoon still hovers over his coffee, teetering and threatening to spill. He hastily dumps the sugar and gives it a stir. “Sorry. Got a little distracted there,” he says, putting on an easy smile. “Was a bit of a rough day last time, is all.”

Hanzo seems unconvinced, but he knows when to let things drop. It’s one of the many things McCree appreciates about him. 

They lapse into a companionable quiet. Hanzo breaks off a small piece of the doughnut and pops it into his mouth. He absentmindedly sucks a crumb off the pad of his thumb, and McCree forgets all about pointing out that he'd actually bought that particular doughnut for himself. 

 

—

They're both sent back to the States again within the month, but on separate, minor missions. Hanzo goes off with his brother and Angela. McCree tries not to think about how irritable that makes him. 

McCree's sent out on a solo mission for three weeks, investigating a business out in Canada Winston worries might have some Talon ties. It looks and acts like a standard accounting firm, and three weeks of running coffee and organizing files doesn’t give McCree any reason to believe otherwise. The tedium slowly grates on his nerves, and being treated like a witless errand boy does so more quickly, until he’s certain that he has none left carrying him through. 

The whole thing is made worse by having to maintain radio silence the entire three weeks. He wasn't necessarily the sort to enjoy long text conversations or phone calls, but he could always count on a wry response from Angela or Genji if he sent them updates or complaints, and Lena and Mei sometimes just liked to check in. He gets none of this, though, and it leaves him far too much time to think. 

And of course, because his heart's a goddamn fool, he finds himself missing Hanzo the most. 

For a while, as one does once a crush starts to become a little bit desperate, McCree entertains the notion of telling Hanzo in a variety of ways. With how long they've known each other, just asking for a date seems too distant. Grand gestures are something, but anything too grand would just leave Hanzo embarrassed and irritable regardless of how he felt in return. He doesn't know when Hanzo's birthday is and asking Genji would mean any surprise would be ruined. 

At some point, he remembers the conversation with Hanzo during their last mission, and he thinks for far too long about gifting Hanzo with some sort of sweet thing. Cakes and candies were romantic, weren't they? Except something generic would go over about as well as a snowball taking a lovely vacation in Hell, and Hanzo deserves better than some dime-a-dozen chocolates. 

He dithers and sighs and eventually forgets about the whole thing after a week or so, and the conversation shortly thereafter. The whole idea is a fool's errand, anyway--it all assumes that Hanzo would want him at all. 

Just before he can drive himself mad with hypotheticals,  he digs up a handwritten set of budgets in someone's locked office desk that, even coded and vague, implicate the business in some illicit dealings quite nicely. He activates the little automatic drone that helpfully scans and uploads all of the pages straight to  Athena and Winston, neatly replaces everything, and slips out of the city the moment he is given the all-clear. 

By the time he gets back to Gibraltar, the combination of a shitty mission and an equally shitty flight has him too exhausted and irritable. He checks in with Winston, drags himself through the shower, and flops onto his bed. He’s too antsy for sleep, but he can at least use a few minutes with his eyes closed before he has to dodge the rest of the team to find food. 

He only gets a couple of minutes before there is a knock on his door. He sighs up at the ceiling. “Just a sec.”

His irritation all but evaporates when he opens the door to find Hanzo on the other side. He has a paper bag in one arm, wafting the rich scent of food, and a bottle of whiskey in the other. 

"Well damn," McCree says. "Rollin' out a hero's welcome."

Hanzo rolls his eyes, even as he smiles. "Hello to you, as well. I  _ thought _ you might like to celebrate your success, but if not . . ."

McCree snorts. "Success. Yeah. We'll call it that." 

His tone makes Hanzo's smile immediately drop in a way that makes McCree's stomach do the same. "Oh," Hanzo says. "I . . . was under the impression that you had gotten what you needed."

McCree groans, rubbing his hands down his face. “Sorry, Han," he says wearily. "Was just a long, frustrating sort of job. Bunch of annoying assholes, then me doing a whole lot of nothin’ to prove that they’re assholes. Got me in a bit of a mood, y’know?”

“Oh. I am sorry. Perhaps I should have considered--would you like me to go?”

His expression of mild concern might have fooled anyone else, but McCree knows better nowadays, and he sees the flash of disappointment as it crosses his face. "No, 'course not," he says. "Just warnin' you I might not be the best company."

Hanzo nods, but his brow is still pinched with uncertainty. McCree reaches to take the bag. "Got a couple glasses if you wanna pour us a drink," he says, nodding to the pair he keeps on his desk just for this purpose. 

"I--yes."

McCree pauses as he lifts the first box out of the bag. "Seriously, what's buggin' you?"

"It is nothing."

It's clearly not nothing, but no amount of prying will get Hanzo to talk if he doesn't want to. He unpacks both their meals, but pauses when he finds a third box at the bottom of the bag. This one is smaller and clearly from a different place entirely. 

He looks questioningly at Hanzo, but he is pointedly not watching McCree, pretending to need his entire focus to pour their drinks. McCree opens the box.

What he finds is an apple pie. A full one, untouched, with the slightly uneven look to the crust that comes from something handmade. He looks to Hanzo again, his mouth running dry. 

"Why . . . ?" he starts, and finds himself unable to finish the question.

Hanzo sits on the edge of the bed and shrugs one shoulder, now very interested in the contents of his glass. "We ended up getting dinner the last night of our mission," he says, too casually. "One of their specialties was apparently their pies, and I remembered what you had said before."

Forgetting dinner entirely, McCree grabs one of the forks from the bag and carves out a piece of the pie right from the center. Hanzo mutters "That is  _ barbaric,"  _ but is ignored. 

It's good, definitely one of the better apple pies he's had--tart apples and sweet cinnamon, perfectly flaky crust that just about melts on the tongue. But it's the full realization of what Hanzo's done--not only remembering some inane conversation from weeks ago, but going out of his way to bring back a gift--that has him struggling to speak.

"Thank you, Hanzo" McCree says when he finally has his voice again. "This is real nice of you." Hanzo gives him a halfhearted smile. "Is this what's been eatin' at you this whole time?"

Hanzo purses his lips and runs his fingertip around the rim of his glass, which is now conspicuously empty. It is a long moment before he answers. "I had hoped to--to have a rather different conversation, but now I believe it might be better saved for another time, if you are not feeling well. It is no matter."

McCree's heart feels full to bursting. He sets aside the box and sits beside Hanzo on the bed. He knocks his hand lightly against Hanzo's and leaves it there, fingers resting in the valleys of Hanzo's knuckles. "Dunno," he says. "Seems like it might be somethin' worth talking about to me."

Realization dawns on Hanzo's face slowly. When he finally meets McCree's eye again, it's with a shy, sweet smile.

Much later, after confessions and dinner and a few self-conscious laughs are shared, McCree offers to split the rather large piece of pie with Hanzo. It's good, and he ends up eating most of it, but finds it tastes better off Hanzo's lips.


	15. Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a conversation about frottage on Twitter and then this happened.
> 
> Probably the only chapter to be rated E, but like, the gentlest of Es.

Hanzo had his night planned out before he even set foot on the tarmac. He was going to turn on the kettle in the kitchen, then take a long, hot shower while his tea water boiled. He would eat whatever required the least amount of preparation that he could find, and if he was lucky, another agent would already have made dinner with leftovers to spare. Then he would collapse straight into bed and sleep for fourteen hours. Ideally, all of this would take place with no social interaction whatsoever. 

 

McCree, however, is very good at disrupting plans. 

 

He greeted Hanzo in the bay with a "Welcome back, sug," and a slow, sweet kiss that left Hanzo weaker in the knees than all his exhaustion did. After, he urged Hanzo into the kitchen and put together dinner--turkey sandwiches, not the most intensive of meals but thoughtful and filling nonetheless--and they sat side by side as they ate. They exchanged brief tales of their respective missions but were mostly content to eat in companionable silence. McCree was tired, too, his movements a bit sluggish and restrained, but his smile never faltered. 

 

And as they make their way to bed now, Hanzo  _ plans _ to gently but firmly request that McCree go back to his own dorm tonight. He has no doubt that McCree would honor that request, but he never gets to it. Their kiss goodnight drags on outside Hanzo's door, each of them nudging forward to catch the other's lips when it seems they might part. The gentle embers smoldering in Hanzo's gut are stoked by each pass of Mccree's hands over his back, his ribs, his hips, as though McCree simply cannot stop touching him. 

 

Hanzo feels similarly. 

 

He pulls McCree into his dorm--almost  _ their _ dorm at this point, the same way McCree's is--by his shirt collar, but it's McCree that guides and pushes him back onto the bed. His mouth leaves Hanzo’s in favor of his neck and the soft dip behind his ear. “Missed you so much,” McCree murmurs, beard scratching the delicate skin of Hanzo’s throat as he speaks.

 

“I missed you as well,” Hanzo sighs, threading his hand through McCree’s hair. McCree settles his weight over Hanzo’s body, pressing him pleasantly into the mattress. His hips rock against Hanzo’s in a slow drag, just enough friction to send sparks skittering along Hanzo’s spine. Hanzo plants his feet and rolls up into McCree’s movements, smiling at McCree’s sharp inhale.

 

Undressing is a slow and difficult task. Neither of them want to separate long enough to take anything off efficiently. McCree sits up to peel off his shirt, but rucks Hanzo’s up under his arms. Hanzo wriggles his pants down around his knees and pushes at McCree’s jeans until he finally huffs and pulls them off himself. They fall back together with fewer layers between them, now separated only by the thin cotton of their underwear. Hanzo groans at the grind of McCree's cock against his, and McCree catches his mouth again as though to take that sound for himself. 

 

Eventually Hanzo has the bright idea to finish undressing, at least as much as McCree will allow; he stretches and fumbles to push down his underwear, then McCree's, while McCree lays kisses across his neck and chest. "You are being entirely unhelpful," Hanzo laughs as he finally manages to rip McCree's underwear down some around his thighs.

 

"Just tryin' to love on you," McCree replies easily. He closes a hand around them both, and Hanzo drops his head back with a sigh. "Can't blame a man for wantin' to treat you right, can you?"

 

Hanzo likes to think that he's gotten better at responding to McCree's flattery over the last few months. But perhaps it's the sleepiness or the sweetness of the moment that leaves Hanzo without words, his face warming. McCree chuckles and playfully nips at his collarbone. 

 

They rock together for a few moments more, until the space between them becomes hot and sweat beads on their skin. McCree starts to sit back. "How do you wanna—?"

 

Hanzo gets his arms around his neck before he can go to far, shaking his head. "Like this," he whispers. He pulls McCree down until their foreheads touch and breath mingles between them.

 

McCree huffs something like a laugh but obeys, resettling and resuming his rhythm. He slides wetly against Hanzo's abs, not quite aligned, but it's still plenty enough. "Just like this, huh?"

 

"Yes." Hanzo meets McCree's eye, difficult this close but worth it to see the way they've darkened, glints of gold flashing in the irises. He pushes a hand back through McCree's hair, settles it around the curve of his jaw. "I like having you close like this."

 

McCree's gaze softens, a crooked smile pulling up the corners of his mouth. He dips down for a kiss and murmurs against Hanzo's lips, "Me too."

 

They don't chase orgasm so much as meander after it, riding the natural rhythm that their desire takes. It's slow but no less pleasurable, lazy and sweet. When Hanzo drops an arm back onto the bed behind his head, McCree reaches for his hand. Their fingers lace together in the crinkled sheets, and Hanzo feels like he could drown in the intimacy.

 

Hanzo's peak sneaks up on him—one moment he is floating on the wave of sensation, the next pleasure hits him all at once and he is arching up against McCree's body, gasping against his mouth. As he comes down after, he tightens his hold on McCree's hand and slides his other down to the small of McCree's back, encouraging the rock of his hips. McCree's mouth opens on a silent gasp and he tenses as he spills over Hanzo's belly, eyes squeezed shut in bliss. Hanzo drops kisses across his face as he waits for McCree to come back to himself, and when their eyes meet again, McCree's breathless grin makes Hanzo's chest swell with something warm and light. 

 

Sleepiness and contentment settle over them both. They clean up with the nearest article of clothing they can reach and tuck together under the blankets. Somehow their hands meet again, curled loosely together between them. McCree runs his thumb over Hanzo's knuckles in a slow, steady pattern that Hanzo watches until he drifts off.

 

Perhaps spontaneity was good sometimes. 


End file.
